


You just have to ask

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Destiel - Freeform, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Grace Bondage, Grace Play, M/M, Masochism, Masochist Dean, Painplay, Sub Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 11:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7842385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs someone to it all go away for a little while. Cas just needs him to ask.</p><p>"If you trust me, then put your hands on the floor in front of you."<br/>The man kneeling in front of him opens his mouth. Takes a deep breath as if he's gearing up to an excuse. Lets it out slowly as he closes his eyes. His hands unmoor from one another, are held out slowly like he'd do if he was faced with a loaded gun: Easy, see? Easy. When he places them on the floor, palms flat, his teeth grit. His back arches.<br/>"Good," Castiel says. "That's good, Dean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You just have to ask

Dean Winchester is on his knees.  
This in itself is not an unusual occurrence. Whether polishing out dings from a Chevy bumper (for happy decades), chained in blood and Hell-knows-what in the line of duty (for miserable years) or (for unexpected, wonderful months) pleasuring the not-strictly-a-dude he still can't bring himself to call 'partner', Dean Winchester finds himself on his knees with more frequency than he's ever had cause to examine.  
That is not this.  
Cas is locking the door. He knows that Dean hears the click and then the metal thud of it. Then his footsteps: measured, unhurried, leading back to where Dean kneels. Dean doesn't look up. "Are you comfortable?" Castiel asks him.  
"Could do with a cushion." Dean grins at the floor, the wiry carpet a functional military grey. He shifts on his knees, fingers twined behind his back like he's not quite sure what to do with his hands. But he keeps his head bowed.  
"Look at me," Castiel instructs. He doesn't raise his voice, but the words carry the authority of someone who is used to having his orders obeyed. Something deep within him flutters when Dean responds to it, lifting his head in a jerky little stop-start movement and meeting Castiel’s eyes. "If you want a cushion, ask for it."  
Dean licks his lips. Just the smallest flicker before they curl into a smile again. "That how it works? Any chance of a beer?" His fingers flex. His smile spreads easily into that charming grin of his. The one he uses on everyone but Castiel. But his eyes are unreadable.  
"Why don't you ask nicely and find out?" It will take work, Castiel knows, to coax Dean into the right mindset for this. It will take time. But Castiel has millenia of patience at his disposal. He can wait for one obstinate human.  
The slightest spark in his eyes at that. One eyebrow raises. "What if I don't wanna ask nice? You gonna spank me, Principle?"  
"No," Castiel replies, his expression calmly blank. He has no intention of giving Dean anything, not yet. Not when there is such a long way to go.  
Dean's expression wavers at that, just a little. His lower lip pushes out, before he pulls it between his teeth, inclines his head. "What _are_ you gonna do to me, then, man? I thought this was, like..." He trails off. His eyes flicker, to and from Cas's face, like he can't quite hold his gaze.  
  
_Thirteen days, two hours, seven minutes ago. Dean's forehead against the steering wheel of his car. Knuckles caked in drying blood. His voice had been flat, beyond the usual post-hunt exhaustion. After all the ordeals Castiel had seen Dean and his brother survive, it always seemed to be the little things that pushed Dean closest to the edge. "I just, I dunno, Cas. Just sometimes I wish I could..." His voice had cracked and something inside Castiel cracked with it. "Switch off. Just for a moment y’know? Make it quiet. Make nothing matter. Just for a little while."_  
  
"I can help you," Castiel tells him. "If you'll let me." It’s the letting go that seems like it will be most difficult for Dean. Letting someone else take over. Castiel crosses his arms. With the door locked shut the light is dim and soothing. "Will you let me, Dean?"  
"I trust you, Cas." Dean says, which is not an answer. He shifts and something gives a little creak; his knees or the floor. He squares his shoulders. His eyes plead. "I just don't... you know, man?" He tries for another smile. It looks uncertain.  
Trust is an interesting choice of words. It has always been a rope between them; something to bind them together at times, yes. But also to twist around each other's throats. Castiel wants to say _You don't even know me_. _How much could you possibly know me, when all you've ever known of me is this body I'm trapped in when I'm with you? I'm a ship in a bottle but all you can see is the glass._ He says none of it.  
"If you trust me, then put your hands on the floor in front of you."  
The man kneeling in front of him opens his mouth. Takes a deep breath as if he's gearing up to an excuse. Lets it out slowly as he closes his eyes. His hands unmoor from one another, are held out slowly like he'd do if he was faced with a loaded gun: _Easy, see? Easy._ When he places them on the floor, palms flat, his teeth grit. His back arches.  
"Good," Castiel says. "That's good, Dean." In Heaven, obedience was always expected to be its own reward, and was not praised or indeed remarked upon at all. But this is Earth. Things are different, allowances must be made. And besides, Castiel has long recognised the inadequacies of many of Heaven's previous policies. Dean requires some verbal or physical signal that he has done well. The psychology behind it is not complex. He wishes to be assured of his place, his function, his value. It is something Castiel understands.  
The solid line of Dean's shoulders dips a little as he drops his head further, staring at the floor once more. His body is a drawn bow, shivering with potential. For violence, or something else. Very rarely when that bow is drawn is it allowed to merely slacken again.  
"Now crawl forwards, slowly, until you reach the wall ahead of you. Then stop." Simple instructions. Castiel knows that Dean longs for this simplicity, to face tasks with no subtle shades of meaning whatsoever. No choices for him to make, no possible interpretations. It is, again, something he can empathise with. A longing to return to an easier time, when obedience was all that was required and there existed no doubt, no moral ambiguity.  
There's a slight noise. A stir of air as Dean slowly exhales a long breath out through his nose. It sounds like anger. Reflex; resistance. The muscles of his shoulders bunch beneath the layers of his shirts. Coiled power, primed to lash out. He shuffles one knee forward. There's no catlike grace here. He looks tired. Drained. The next breath he lets go is longer, softer. Less anger than reluctant acceptance.  
"That's it," Castiel says, and the tone of his voice never varies from its usual deep calm. "Just like that. You're doing well." He says it as if this is some Herculean task instead of hand after hand and knee after knee. He knows that the real work being done here can't be seen. Castiel is well practiced at giving weight to invisible things.  
When he reaches the wall, Dean dutifully stops. Raises his head to rest his forehead against the smooth plaster as if he needs the extra support to lean against. His ribcage expands, contracts; steady laboured breaths. Castiel expects him to say something. Some smart-mouth comment. But it doesn't come.  
"How are you feeling?" From this position Dean can't see him, but he still twitches at Castiel’s voice as if it touches him, like a physical thing. It pleases Castiel, satisfies him. Makes him want to put his hands on Dean, his body on Dean's familiar body. Makes him want to reach inside and touch him somewhere elemental and agonising.  
Dean swallows. His face is in shadow but Castiel can see his cheeks are blushed pink, highlighting the visible edge of one cheekbone. "I..." Rough-voiced. Hesitant. "All kinds o' awkward, if I'm honest." He pauses. "How are _you_ feelin'?" His voice is quieter. Softer. "Am I allowed to ask you stuff?"  
"Yes. You're allowed to ask me stuff." Castiel wants reach into Dean's mind and discover what's underneath the word _awkward_. "I feel fine. Put your hands on the wall in front of you. Keep your knees on the floor."  
Dean complies. His fingers spread, pushing his upper body from the wall. His head, still lowered, tilts a little, the barest sideways glance back up towards Castiel. He can probably see little more than his shoes from that angle. Dean clears his throat. "Is this right?" He asks.  
"Yes. That's right." He looks tense, still, Castiel thinks. Like he stores every responsibility, every death, every bad memory there in the muscle. In his strong back and broad shoulders, his thick arms. "Do you want me to hurt you?"  
Dean’s eyes squeeze shut, then. Lips clamped together. It's not as if he draws a sharp breath but like he stops breathing altogether, sudden, his nostrils flaring, entire body tight as a fist. " _Yeah_."  
"Then ask me for it." Consent is meaningful, especially among Castiel's kind. Things must be expressly stated, invited. Words have power. The intent behind them has power.  
"Cas..." Castiel doesn't need to see his eyes to feel the pleading in them. It weighs in the air of the room. Always unspoken. _Usually_ unspoken. "Can you... I want- I need you to-" His hands still against the wall ball themselves into fists, knuckles pressing white against the paintwork. Castiel can almost taste his compulsion to _punch_. But he doesn't. He takes a deep breath. Wets his lips. The words come out low, in a rush. " _Cas I need you to hurt me please_."  
"Yes, Dean," Castiel agrees, easily. "I know." He steps closer. Moves behind Dean, so he can feel the heat of Dean's body through the front of his own trousers. "Try to breathe steadily. It will help you stay calm."  
There's no chance, of course, however much Dean tries. He's trying his best to regulate his breaths, pulling them in and exhaling them, long and unsteady, through his nose. But he's still shaking. Leaning back towards Castiel like it's unconscious; like a flame to air.  
"I'm going to hurt you now," Castiel says. "It will be painful, but it will cause you no long-term damage. If you understand me say yes, Castiel."  
"Yes. Castiel." His full name sounds awkward in Dean's mouth. Ill-fitting. The tension quivers in him.  
In the instructional videos Castiel has watched on the practice of sadomasochism the sadist usually uses some implement or other to inflict pain on their partner. Whips seem to be popular. Riding crops likewise. Castiel feels fortunate that he has no need of such clumsy instruments. No, he merely reaches out a hand and touches Dean somewhere indefinable. Somewhere beyond his physical body. A place that has him buckling with the agony of it. Castiel pulls back after a moment, and Dean collapses to the floor.  
He has seen Dean like this too many times. Curling in on himself, face pressed to the carpet, gasping in agony. This is different though; Castiel can sense that immediately. He recovers, panting. Tries to right himself, back on his knees, palms clutching uncertainly at the wall. His eyes are shut. Castiel can see them flickering behind the closed lids. His mouth slack as he manages, "thank you... Castiel."  
"You're doing well," Castiel tells him. "You're following instructions perfectly. I'm pleased with you." He touches that indescribable place once again. Dean is warm here. All soft and tacky like marshmallows over a camp fire. He clings to Castiel even though the touch hurts him, shocks him rigid, his body spasming. It's strangely beautiful. As the lash of pain ebbs, Dean truly relaxes, slumped against the rough flooring. His face looks briefly peaceful, his mouth lazily forming silent words, _oh, oh_. When he tries to kneel again this time, he can't find his balance at first. Dizzy from it. When he manages to crawl to his knees, he sways. His voice rasps. "S'good. M'good. Again. Please?"  
Castiel tries to keep the pain as light as possible, so that Dean can take it without losing consciousness. But it is difficult. Dean leans into it when Castiel touches him inside - that awful, painful touch. "Very good, Dean," Castiel says, although he doubts Dean can even hear him at this point.  
At first he'd held onto that undertone of anxiety. As if Castiel might at any point stop. Think it too much and deny him his fill of this. Now Dean gasps a sound that might be a sob, might be a laugh. He raises his face with evident difficulty, prone on the floor with his arms wrapped around his ribs as if it's the only thing holding him together. His eyes are glassy, filmed with unshed tears. But the smile he gives Castiel is utterly, deliriously sweet, stupid with thoughtless bliss.  
"Are you able to get back into position?" Castiel can hurt Dean just as easily where he lies, but he doesn't want to push him too far and this is as good a test as any of where the boundary might be. Dean, he knows, will let him push. Will take whatever he's given like the good soldier that he is, even if it harms him in the end. Castiel needs to be responsible for him, needs to draw lines that won't be crossed.  
"Yeah," Dean says, immediately, unthinkingly. His arms strain to push himself up from the hard floor. Shaky. His forehead creased in determination that tips into frustration. He's breathing hard now. Sweat soaking the front of his t-shirt beneath his flannel, shining at his temples. He makes it to his knees. Back bowed. Trembling.  
Castiel tilts his head and, for a moment, merely watches Dean. Trembling and panting in a way that seems very sexual. As if he's being penetrated too roughly, taken up against the wall in the way he likes when he's trying to punish himself, when he goads Castiel, when he tries to argue with him while they're in the act of sexual intimacy. When he wants to be hurt by the lack of preparation, the suddenness of penetration, the force an angel is capable of using. "Is this sexual for you, Dean?" he asks, and his tone communicates no judgement for whatever the answer may be.  
Dean's glance at him is panicked. Just his eyes, flickering, his head seemingly too heavy to turn. His forearms, braced, are shaking harder now; there's no way he'd be able to place his hands up against the wall again were Castiel to ask him to. His lips part around silence. Castiel waits. "Cas... Castiel... I... No, I'm not..." His hips shift. A guilty little tell. Breath catching in his throat. "Not just that. Cas?" His tone is pleading again. "Is this OK? Am I... normal?"  
Normal. Such an interesting choice of words. Castiel supposes that with the life Dean has led, it shouldn't be surprising that he craves normality. Conformity. "Does it matter?" Castiel asks him.  
That gets him a soft laugh. Half-sob again. An attempted shake of Dean's head, which is bowing closer and closer to the floor. "Guess not." It's a whisper, but closer to his usual tone. His fingers flex against the wiry carpet, trying to curl.  "Why break the... habit of a... lifetime..."  
Castiel moves, then, finally. Can't stop himself. He sinks to the floor behind Dean, hands on Dean's shoulders, coaxes him upright again, lets him lean back against his chest. Wraps a strong arm around him, holds him fast while he slumps in Castiel's embrace. He feels Dean shaking. Wants to ease all the tension from him. "You must know that masochism is hardly unusual among your species."  
"That what this is, Dr Phil?" His chest heaves beneath Castiel's embrace. Struggling for the upper hand again. His arms fumble back, trying to hold on, but he's weak still, can barely manage to snag his fingers in Castiel's coat. Can still manage to press himself back, his body the length of Castiel's.  
"Sexual enjoyment from pain. Yes, that's what this is." Castiel strokes a hand through Dean's hair. It is damp with sweat. He reminds himself that Dean is so very young. So fragile in comparison to an angel. "Would you like more?"  
Dean swallows. His eyes dart. "You're makin' me sound pretty kinky there, dude." His voice is choked. Castiel's hand tightens so slightly in his hair and he exhales a little moan. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Yeah, I'd like... Whatever you want, let me... What do you want me to do?"  
"I don't want you to do anything," Castiel tells him. He cups a hand across Dean's forehead and grips him tight. "Just let it happen." He doesn't even use his hands this time. Just reaches out with some invisible part of his grace and twists, just so, in just such a way as to slice through Dean's nerve endings like a knife.  
Dean's mouth drops open. _So pretty, this flesh_. His body jack-knifes against the solid body behind him as if a current of electricity is being passed through it. Wetness seeps at the corners of his eyes. From this angle, Castiel can see the bulge in the front of his jeans: he's not quite hard - probably due to the intensity of pain - but noticeably aroused. Castiel allows his grace-touch to ebb, a tide of needles, and Dean relaxes against him again, chest heaving, an indescribable noise of pain and longing breaking from him.  
"Good, Dean." Castiel murmurs, brushing his lips against Dean's hair. "You're doing well." He's beautiful like this. Panting and agonised. How stunning he must have been in Hell, all those years. Like a slice of blinding white light amid all that dirty red. Beautiful and suffering and lost.  
" _Yesss_..." Dean just about manages the word, hissed from between clenched teeth. His hips rock, weakly, forehead creasing as if he's frustrated. At the lack of contact, perhaps. When the next wave comes - Castiel tries to make it lighter, gentler, but Dean's soul clings to his grace like burnt sugar - his lips part around a whimper and he says, "Cas, please-"  
"If you want something," Castiel says, his mouth against Dean's ear, "you have to ask for it." He lets a little grace slither out of himself and into Dean, lets it burst like a star inside him, a little sherbet fizz of pleasure to sweeten the pain. "Ask me, Dean."  
"Oh... _oh_ god..." Dean's mouth is a perfect pink O. His eyelids flutter; he licks his lips, leaning all of his weight back against Castiel, hands gripping tighter in the folds of his coat. "That. Do that. Again. _Please_."  
"Good boy," Castiel says. It's a term he has heard used often in the videos he watched by way of research when Dean had first shown signs of needing this. He holds Dean steady. It is a matter of nothing more than concentration for him to feed both sensations to Dean at once: the pain first, bright and sharp, and then the pleasure to soften it, make it mellow and golden. Ripe. "Good boy," Castiel repeats.  
Dean _moans_. At the praise or the sensation, Castiel can't quite tell. He pushes his head back against Castiel's palm, his rear back against Castiel's crotch. The noises he is making are delicious now, musical. The pull of agony and push of sweetness conducting a rhythm in him, in the roll of his hips and the rise and fall of his chest. Breath hisses in at the snap of pain, leaves him in a groan when Castiel's grace soothes the sting. His skin fever-hot. The line of his jeans showing him fully erect now.  
Castiel's grace is touching Dean. Beneath his clothes, beside his skin. Under it. Tasting him inside, as if Castiel has split him open and then put his mouth to the wound. Tasting the way the pain settles in his body, the way it pools in the muscle. "You're beautiful like this," Castiel murmurs, not knowing if Dean will hear him or not in this state.  
No reply, but a response; purely physical, a repetitive tightening and relaxing of Dean's entire body that no lover would surely recognise were they not entwined as closely with every fibre of his being as Castiel is now. Dean's insides shiver, each shimmering wet fold of him convulsing, dark and secret, snug there inside his skin. Then a different kind of noise. Higher pitched. Utterly without ego or shame. His voice is more breath than tone, "Cas, please, I'm gonna... Cas, I'm gonna come, please..."  
"I've got you," Castiel says, without thinking. "You can come, I want you to, I've got you..." He can't help hurting Dean now, forcing too much into him, so much raw energy it must make his soul ache where it stretches to accommodate Castiel's greedy push. He needs... he needs Dean to hold himself wide open, spiritually, and let Cas _inside_. He feels Dean jerk under the sudden force of it. Tries to soothe the way with pleasure, lets bliss shiver through him from the inside out.  
The noise he makes is almost a howl, profane made sacred, ebbing to sobs as his body shudders its surrender, wetness soaking into the front of his jeans. And Castiel feels it, the shockwaves of it thrumming, until Dean sags in his arms.  
  
He's always sleepy after orgasm, Castiel knows. Always wants to keep Castiel close, to wrap him up in the warmth of his arms and doze. Castiel stands and easily gathers Dean's heavier body in his arms, carries him to the bed and lays him down there like a child. He is still breathing heavily. Castiel touches the back of his hand to Dean's forehead, as if checking for fever, wonders if he's even truly conscious or perhaps sleeping already, until Dean stirs at his touch. He's trying to move, his limbs uncoordinated - Castiel can imagine their leaden refusal. His lips form silent words. Castiel watches his face until his eyelids slit open, a sliver of green between sandy lashes. "Cas."  
"I'm here."  
The smile that barely curls his lips is gentle. Castiel leans closer to catch his whisper.  
"Damn. We're good."

**Author's Note:**

> We did another RP thing. It's the first time we've written Destiel. We hope you like it.


End file.
